


Herzeleid

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Drama, F/M, Horror, M/M, Possession, Stephen King - Freeform, Tragedy, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 06:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5616595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because there's nothing wrong with listening to a couple of mermaid songs, as long as you're safely tied to your post. That's what all of them did. They call me a sinner because I took it a step too far, but I've seen the eyes of people I've served beside wander, too noble to put a hand where it wasn't wanted. But the other people there? The drunkards who'll probably wrinkle their noses at it if you tell them what I've done, I'm sure? I've seen every single one of them cop a feel here and there. I've seen the boy shoot warning glares at a hand that'd gone too far up, click his tongue at fingers that brushed too close for comfort. Still, those men had their wives to go back to. Had their God, and their social standards. They had their posts. But me? I had nothing. Back then I thought, 'you've given up everything for the people of this country. There would be no harm in living for yourself for a change'.</p>
<p>So when the siren came to me, leaned against my table, and moved to snatch the beer from my lips and take a sip; when the siren drawled in that unmistakable chirpy accent I'd hated once upon a time, </p>
<p>"Why the long face, Süsser?"</p>
<p>I damned the whole world, and took my first step to the edge of the ship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reise Seemann Reise

**Author's Note:**

> A fic that combines different elements from dark romanticism and Gothic fantasy with a tinge of Stephen King madness.  
> I owe everything to the gorgeous the-eruri-in-her-eyes.tumblr.com who came with the idea and worked on this baby with me.  
> As for me, you can find me on 66honeybadgers.tumblr.com
> 
> Have a blast!  
> Kudos and comments are deeply appreciated~

Anna Woods's mother was visiting again. The only window in the small room, where Allen Novak sat, was securely shut, secured with Iron bars. He remembered a time when he -as a young man who'd barely had any true experience with this kind of environment at the time- had thought those bars unnecessary. That was, until he'd seen a patient of only twenty years old manage to squeeze herself through the west tower's window and plummet to an early grave.   
  
No, the window at the wall to his far left was shut and secure.  
  
Which made it all the more frustrating that he could still hear Ms. Woods's muffled, accusatory screaming. He would certainly need to have a word with her Dr. Brenan to see whether he thought these visits from Ms. Woods's mother were necessary, or whether the man simply found it amusing to disrupt the work of others.  
  
Allen sighed, pushing the ever sliding glasses back up the bridge of his nose as he turned his attention to more pressing matters. Like the very peculiar case of the man sitting in the chair opposite him, broad back turned so he was facing the securely shut window.  
  
"How're we feeling today, Mr. Smith?"  
  
"I am fine, Dr. Novak. Not going to dangle from a noose any time soon," Mr. Smith said in a flat voice, not bothering to turn his attention from the window, "If you'd please tell your assistant not to be so concerned…"  
  
"That's strange. She hasn't bothered to voice those concerns to me," Allen said.   
  
After a little more than six months worth of sessions with the man, he didn't really expect this conversation to be in any way friendly. Polite, certainly. But friendly? No, not with Smith's way of exerting dominance in any given situation. That much Allen had noted from the accounts of those closest to the man, and from his disinterested, almost detached mannerism whenever Allen came for one of their 'talks'. As if he were a nuisance in Smith's busy schedule. As if Smith, ever gracious and cordial, was donating a good chunk of his time to Allen and his childish questions.   
  
Allen flipped through the pages of his notepad, and said, "I won't offend you by assuming you're excited to see me today, but, as always, the sooner we get through with this..."  
  
"The sooner we can go home and sit in our favourite armchair, enjoying a cold Budweiser. Of course, Dr. Novak," Erwin's head turned almost mechanically to watch him with his usual, polite disinterest.   
  
"Well then, you'll be glad to hear that I've planned something a bit different for today," Allen sat up straighter in his chair, flipping his notebook to an empty page and placing it in his lap, "I was hoping today might just be the day we moved away from the past and a little closer to your present situation"  
  
"Which is far brighter, I suppose," Erwin said as he pushed himself to the wall, keeping a straight posture with his legs stretched on the bed, "I heard something very interesting about Northern Bridge a couple of days ago. Do you want me to share?"   
  
Allen suppressed a sigh and the incessant urge to take his glasses off and rub at his eyes. A nasty habit, his wife would say. But then she wasn't spending more than half her waking day trying to creep into the minds of murderers. He'd rub his eyes as much as he wanted, thank you very much.   
  
"Why not?" Allen gave a tight lipped smile, "It's always nice to hear people's opinions on the hospital. Gives us ideas on how to improve it."  
  
"Do you know what most people say about Northern Bridge, Allen? 'Most people who go to the Bridge, never come back'," Erwin rested his chin in the palm of his one, good hand, "I'm not sure how you'll be able to fix that."  
  
Smith wasn't the first patient to express his distaste for the hospital and most -if not everyone- in it. However he certainly was the only one who could make Allen's skin crawl when he did.   
  
"Why do you think they say that?" Allen said.  
  
"Well, I heard many doctors from this elite private hospital are very good at neurosurgical procedures. Or at "Turning the mind inside out", if you are more comfortable with a friendlier term," He chuckled, deep and throaty, as if he had told the joke of the year.  
  
"I can't say I'm very fond of such procedures," Allen tapped his pen against the notepad, his face as passive as possible, "Are you?"  
  
"Did you know that Rosemary Kennedy was left permanently incapacitated after a lobotomy gone wrong? Her mental capacity diminished to that of a two-year-old. But of course, it cured her of the violent mood swings, much to her father's relief. Such a tragic story of could-haves and might-have-beens, wouldn't you agree?"  
  
"Very tragic. I tend to agree more with Snorre Wohlfahrt's opinion on them rather than Freeman's," Allen said, "If I may ask, Mr. Smith, what is it that's gotten you so interested in that particular surgical procedure all of a sudden?"  
  
"I'm not sure," His thick eyebrows knitted in centration, a wave of fine lines appearing on his forehead, "I might have lent an ear to foul rumors."  
  
"Controversy makes for interesting conversation, and lobotomy is a very controversial topic in the field of psychology right now. It's perfectly natural for you to be interested," Allen said, "And, of course, we're here to talk about whatever you'd like to talk about. Whatever you find interesting"  
  
"Life has been mundane lately, Dr. Novak. I am afraid I just can't seem to find anything to pique my interest lately," Erwin sighed and tilted his head to the side, like a huge bird looking in the distance. A predatory bird, "But I would be more than happy to have a conversation with you."  
  
"I'm glad to hear that," Allen moved his eyes to his notepad for a minute, his pen scratching against the rough paper in such a comforting melody as he scribbled the date. His eyes flicked up to catch Erwin's from under the rims of his glasses, "I was hoping we could talk about Levi today"  
  
Erwin offered Allen a curious look, eyes crinkling at the corners as they narrowed, as if he were trying to remember something, "Didn't we drop that subject already? I thought you said it wouldn't lead us anywhere."  
  
"No, I strictly remember saying it wouldn't have led us anywhere had we discussed it back then when we'd just met and knew close to nothing about each other. As it is, we've known each other for quite a few months now. But" Allen pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose before they could tumbled off, "we won't discuss anything you don't feel ready to talk about"  
  
After a few moments of complete silence, Erwin finally shrugged, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them, "But doesn't it all feel repetitive to you, Allen? I talk, you listen. Maybe because I tell an interesting story, maybe because that's your job. I believe that's called 'incremental repetition'."  
  
"Repetition isn't always a waste of time, Mr. Smith. Sometimes, important details are brought to our attention by repetition. You may feel as though you're going through the same story over and over again, but that's merely because you're the one telling that story. The listener's the one who picks up the new details," Allen held the pen between two long fingers, "That's why I think we should start from the beginning. Before you met your late wife."  
  
"Before I met my late wife, I was already a good way down the road to ruin, Dr. Novak. I had my head set on drinking my mind away, so I apologize if I can't give you as many details as you might like," Erwin paused and lifted a finger, "Oh, and just one thing before we start."  
  
"What would those be?"  
  
"Tell Molly I said hi if you happen to see her. We had some interesting conversations during her graveyard shift," Erwin's lips quirked up in a coy smile as he moved his eyes suggestively to the door "Lavender or whatever the new nurse's name is...I don't like her. So just send Molly my best regards, won't you?"   
  
Six months into their sessions, and Smith still found new ways to try and throw him off his feet. It's times like these when Allen thanked God for the passive, monochrome face his wife often said he was cursed with.  
  
Allen brought his own lips into a smile and gave a curt nod, "Of course. Molly was a delightful young lady. But I'm sure this new nurse only needs a few days to fit in. For all we know, she might simply be shy, and the tough exterior is just a defense mechanism".

"Perhaps. I, for once, would rather trust my instincts. Maybe I am paranoid. Maybe life has just pushed me face first into the mud more times than I would have liked. I don't think anyone's too interested in hearing about that though." Mr. Smith let out a long, drawn out sigh, his eyes catching Allen's in an iron grip. "No, I am sure everyone is just itching to hear about him instead"


	2. Bluten leise in das Meer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are deeply appreciated~

Let's just say that I believe in neither fate nor coincidence. If fate was the strange mechanism that made me cross paths with him, it would mean that this horrible turn of events was also fated to happen. And If that's so, then it means that there is a breathing, living darkness behind our reality. And that this darkness can reach us. 

 

The more times I tell this story, the more it feels like it's turned into a bad joke, Doc. You know what my old man used to say when I found a new witty remark to throw at the table, time and time again? 'That's an old chestnut, son. No matter how many times you tell me that joke, it's not going to get any better. Just more irritating'. A valuable lesson for a foul mouthed kid, don't you think?

 

But whatever makes you sleep better at night. I know for sure that it doesn't give me any sweet dreams. Still, It isn't as if I have anywhere important to be. If you want this old chestnut, I'm more than happy to oblige.

 

 

In 1944, when I was 27, I singlehandedly led the remains of my squad twelve miles away from the German lines, before I collapsed due to massive hemorrhage when my right arm was blown away by a bombshell that made it past our bunker. And do you know what I got for three years in hell and a missing arm, Doc? A small cottage by the lake and the Distinguished Service Cross. What a grateful country we live in, isn't that right? By the time I realized I couldn't give a shit about the precious medal of heroic service, life couldn't have been grander. I was teaching English at Oak Hill Elementary school by day, and as drunk as a coot somewhere in a rundown bar where the waitresses talked like President Roosevelt with laryngitis by night.

 

The day I met him wasn't the least bit special. Just another night of drunken numbness with a couple of old veterans. Much later, I came to realize that the rundown bar where I wasted a good part of my years as an adult was a house of pain. It wasn't a place for a big shot lawyer with a beautiful wife and two prodigy kids. It was a refuge from life and all the horrors that lingered outside. Yes, even in the land of absolute freedom and justice. And it was in that house of misery that I met my change agent. He was easy to spot, even on his first day working there. What when he had the most striking face in that bucket of disfigured faces?

 

And he was beautiful, Doc.

 

Oh, how achingly beautiful and cruel he was. Just like the sea. And from the minute I saw him, I knew there was something...not necessarily wrong, but something unusual. Something you wouldn't see in a man, or woman, or anyone of this world. I can try to describe him, but I you won't believe me. Because you've never seen him, doc. You need to see him to believe someone like him could exist.

 

Do you remember what every mother with half the mind to protect her little boy always told him? "Be careful not to get your girlfriend pregnant, young man. You think I don't know what a pretty face and a short skirt can do to you if you don't use this?" Erwin brought a hand up and tapped his forehead.

 

Truth be told, I was never into short skirts and pink lingerie. But I will be damned if he didn't have the most beautiful face I've ever seen in my life. For the first few days, that was all he was to me. A breathtaking face that slalomed between rackety tables. I thought he was a doll, the first time I saw him walk to the corner of the room to where his violin was, past hands that were scathed, hands that were missing a finger, two, or three, that grabbed and clawed for him. God knows he was frail enough to be one. His head, that tuft of black feathers, barely brushed my chest up close. But what he lacked in size, he made up for in poise and grace. The way he moved, the way he had heads turning just by walking by.

 

Then came the day which, in my humble opinion, marked the beginning of the end. The day the face developed a voice, and the voice turned its attention to me.

 

I remember what happened as if I'd dreamed it all up just last night. When he finished his piece and put the violin down, when he turned to look at me for the shortest moment, I felt like that German bombshell hit me directly in the chest. And when he moved with that feline grace of his to my table, I was already finished digging my own grave.

 

The boy became quite popular amongst the people who frequented the bar. He had everyone between those four walls wrapped around needle like fingers and bruised lips. 

 

I still remember Timothy Moore, the man who'd lost one eye and a good chunk of his jaw in Anzio, holding an arm out to stop the boy as he was sauntering by to his violin. His voice was as shrill as ever when he said, "You sure they didn't screw up back in Deutschland and call ya a boy by mistake, sweetheart?"

 

The boy only turned to him with one of those smiles that could melt and scorch your heart all at once, pulling his arm away like it were made of liquid. 

 

"I'm more a man than you'll ever be, Schätzchen," he drawled. 

 

And you could hear their eyes rolling like marbles as they followed him to his place. Everyone just seemed to completely disregard the fact this boy, who I doubt has ever seen a gun in his life, had just claimed he was more manly than a war hero. A siren, he was. And I was the most foolish sailor of them all.

 

Because there's nothing wrong with listening to a couple of mermaid songs, as long as you're safely tied to your post. That's what all of them did. They call me a sinner because I took it a step too far, but I've seen the eyes of people I've served beside wander, too noble to put a hand where it wasn't wanted. But the other people there? The drunkards who'll probably wrinkle their noses at if if you tell them what I've done, I'm sure? I've seen every single one of them cop a feel here and there. I've seen the boy shoot warning glares at a hand that'd gone too far up, click his tongue at fingers that brushed too close for comfort. Still, those men had their wives to go back to. Had their God, and their social standards. They had their posts. But me? I had nothing. Back then I thought, 'you've given up everything for the people of this country. There would be no harm in living for yourself for a change'.

 

So when the siren came to me, leaned against my table, and moved to snatch the beer from my lips and take a sip; when the siren drawled in that unmistakable chirpy accent I'd hated once upon a time, 

 

"Why the long face, Süsser?"

 

I damned the whole world, and took my first step to the edge of the ship.

 

"Losing a limb usually spoils the mood, sweetheart," I said, matter of factly. 

 

Heck, blame me all you want but I was still young and I was still bitter about it. Time does the trick, Doc. The time that twists and turns between your fingers can bring despair or soothe the pain. Fortunately, in my case it was the latter. But not back then. Back then, I was foolish enough to give him my brightest smile and make room for him at the table.

 

He slipped into the chair and sat like he'd been the one who'd invited me to join him, and he didn't even pass the beer back. Kept it cradled between porcelain hands and rosy lips.

 

"Fuhrer took your arm, Süsser?"

 

I nodded, "I'm afraid he bit off more than he could chew."

 

Naturally, everybody had a taste for anti nazi jokes, but the thunder of laughter that roared around me came out of the blue. The atmosphere ignited and burned like the sky on the Fourth of July. It was almost comforting to see them laughing, you know? They were good men who lost their limbs, their brothers and friends in that hell hole. They deserved to be still able to laugh at a bad joke, Allen.

 

Not him, of course. He didn't even teeter. And the polite smile he offered didn't reach his eyes. All he did was take another, careful sip of the beer before cooing, "Greedy doll. Pouting over one limb when God left it three more. Has mutti never told you about the spider with the broken leg?"

 

Oh, my dearest mother. Poor woman, she was long gone before I had the mental capacity to understand children's stories. I am an only child, Doc. I Never had the chance to play with a baby brother or sister. Or even with an older sibling, who could have taught me how to ride a bike. What's even more tragic is that my mother tried to drown me in the tub when I was two years old. My father broke down the bathroom door and knocked her unconscious. She was sent to a "mental institution" a few days later, which was where she passed away a few months later.

 

"I am afraid she didn't tell me that story. Or maybe she did and I wasn't paying attention" I told him.

 

"When a spider breaks it's leg," He chimed, as if he were about to tell me a fairytale, and not a disgusting tale about an equally disgusting amputated insect, "It cuts it off, and moves on. Doesn't drag it around like dead weight"

 

"But, doll!" A man called from two tables over. I couldn't really decide what was gruffer, his voice or that unruly beard he scratched at as he continued, "I was the one who told you that story, and you said it was bullshit because spiders grow their legs back." 

 

The boy cocked a brow at me as if I were the one who'd ruined his wise story. Yet, where you would normally see embarrassment on any other face because of that man's untimely revelation, I only saw annoyance on his, like he was dealing with a child who'd spoken out of turn. 

 

"That's because, John," The boy said without turning to face the man, "Your spiders are creepy little bastards. Like you. You really shouldn't generalize like that"

 

That was my turn to laugh, Allen. For someone who couldn't have been older than 18, the boy had guts. I've seen many hounds that barked and growled, but they never bit. And there he was, not bothering to spare John a bored look as he sank his sharp teeth into his flesh. It left me dumbfounded but as curious as Lot's wife.

 

"That's a mean thing to say, sweetheart" I told him, the dumb smile still on my face.

 

Just like that, I found the bored look dropping off his face in seconds, replaced by a face splitting grin. He had this way of smiling that made you feel like you were the only person who could make him that happy. It was exhilarating. It made me feel as if those smiles, stretching ridiculously red lips far enough to brush his cheekbones, were kept behind locked doors. And only I had the key.

 

"I'm German, mister," He said, shy or coy, I can't really remember, "I'm as mean as they get. Ain't that right, fellas?"

 

The room was drowned in a roar of thick, throaty cheers again. And I know I was too far gone into that smile to pretend I was the conscious, rational one in the bar, but I could still catch glimpses of the way he seemed to glow in the attention. I'd later learn that he didn't just love attention, he craved it. He basked in its light and would give up a good chunk of his soul to get a taste of it at times. It was heartbreaking, really, because I'd also later come to the conclusion that he longed for attention so much because he had none of it growing up.

 

His mother died when he was still quite young, you see. Like any poor family during the war, he and his mother didn't have the luxury to seek medical treatment. He would later tell me that he loved his mother more than all the water in the ocean, and her tragic death left him emotionally paralyzed. She was sent to an early grave because of tuberculosis. Thus, a ten year old child was left to fight for survival in a world where death was waiting around every corner.

 

It's a good thing that he still had his uncle around, his mother's elder brother. Not that he spoke very fondly of him. But the old man knew how to talk and who to talk to. That's how they managed to escape to the USA and get lost in the crowd of Jewish immigrants. His uncle went on with whatever business appealed more to the audience. I think he was working with a circus crew or something related to the entertainment industry. That's how the boy learned to play the violin and began earning a living.

 

 

******

 

"I am beginning to drift off. My apologies," Mr. Smith stretched his only arm above his head and looked at Allen, "Can I have a glass of water, please?"

 

Allen looked up from his notebook, back into the stark blue eyes that made half the nurses swoon, and the other half uneasy. 

 

"Of course," He clicked his pen and rose from his seat, moving to the door to call for a passing nurse to fetch them a paper cup. Allen shut the door after the cup was in hand and offered it to him, taking his seat again and crossing his legs, "I'm happy to see you're more open to discuss these issues now. I'm suer it will allow us both to understand a lot more about the situation."

 

"Thank you," Mr.Smith brought the paper cup to his lips and gulped down half of the water in one sip, "It doesn't do any harm to take this off my chest, does it? Where was I?"

 

"You were saying something about the boy's uncle, and how he came to play the violin,"

 

"Oh, right. I told you the medication is too strong, Doc. It makes me forget certain things. Anyway," Mr. Smith slowly put the cup down on the rusty iron shelf next to his bed.

 

 

******

 

He had a reputation for being that young, mean German boy, or so he said.

 

"But you've been a sweetheart to me so far" I crooned and ordered another beer. More for his sake than mine, to be honest. Whatever made him stay longer.

 

He shifted in his seat, back straightening like that would somehow make his frail, fragile frame seem larger and more imposing. It was adorable, really.

 

"I don't pick on spiders," He rested his chin on the back of his hands, "Not the ones I like, anyway"

 

"Spiders?" I said, thinking that perhaps I didn't hear him right, "It's hard to believe that spiders can be likeable creatures."

 

"Why not? Because they have a few extra legs? Few extra eyes?" The boy wrinkled his nose in distaste, the grin never fading from his lips, "I've met a good deal of spiders, and they were nicer to me than any of the sleazy old men I've met."

 

Truth be told, he was right. You've seen a drunk before, right, Allen? I'm sure you know none of them were exactly Van Johnson. In fact, most are lucky to still have one intact row of teeth. The majority of men who came back from Normandy weren't dressed to the nines and freshly shaved either. Then again, did it make any difference after they left their minds on that cursed beach? I'll let you be the judge of that, Doc.

 

"Don't let them upset you, doll. We're all bitter old men here, unfortunately" I told him, pushing the beer to him.

 

"I wouldn't be here if I were upset," He scoffed. Something told me that he didn't really have much of a choice even if he were upset. But I said nothing, neither wanting to sully his pride or ruin one of the few enjoyable conversations I'd had in a long time. The boy eyed the beer, considering it for what felt or probably even was a good few minutes, before shaking his head and pushing it back to me, "I ain't drinking it just because you bought it for me, mister"

 

"I never thought about that, sugar. I just thought you liked the taste" I replied, feeling a bit in the gutter for a moment. I didn't want to end the conversation there but I also didn't have the audacity to overstep him.

 

What I did instead, was raise the bottle in the air and ask for a toast. "For freedom" I declared and took a sip of beer, a round of applause and dirty cheering exploding behind me.

 

The smile came back at that, curious eyes flicking from one hollering man to the next. It was in those moments, when his head would start spinning like a flustered bird whenever there was noise, when that mischievous gaze blew wide as he tried to get in on the action himself, that I realised -if only for mere seconds- how young the boy really was. He was just a boy stuck in a world of cruel, cold blooded animals, and thought he could be one if he ruffled his feathers and snapped his beak enough. It makes it all sadder, if that were even possible. A flustered, lost little bird whose mama hadn't lived long enough to teach how to fly. So he ended up learning on his own, taking to the sky in a crooked, fumbling way. I think...that's why I can't bring myself to hate him. Even now. I could never hate that fumbling little bird.

 

"How old are you, mister?" The boy said once the cheering died down enough for him to be heard.

 

"He is an old sonofawhore", Grant Dalton croaked from the other end of the table. He was drunk out of his mind and twice as foul mouthed. But I knew he didn't have any ill intentions. Not old Grant who shielded me with his own body when I lost consciousness from massive blood loss. I turned to him and grinned, flipping him the bird in the same, joyous manner. Then I looked back at the boy, more intrigued than amused.

 

"I'm 28, darling".

 

During that time, though, I looked like I was coming close to 35. Shell Shock, or whatever you white coats call it.

 

"You're still in your twenties, mister," The boy's face twisted in confusion, "Whatcha doing in this old fart town? Shouldn't you be out with your kids or something?"

 

It was funny somehow, you know? I never thought of starting a family. I was planning to take care of myself with what was left of my heart after the war. Maybe if  I'd stuck to that plan. None of this would've happened.

 

"I am a bachelor" I admitted without a second thought. "I don't have kids either." A couple of "Lukcy bastard" and "You know it!" followed my statement.

 

"You keep saying shit like that, but when your kids're packing up and moving out and you're wiping snot on your wives's shoulders, you'll know who the 'lucky bastards' are," The boy called out at no particular person before turning his attention back to me. He eyed the beer bottle in my hand and gave me another smile as he began sliding out of the chair, "Try to learn a thing or two from the grinning gremlins around ya, mister. Betcha you'd look better with a smile then they do,"

 

I was speechless for a good while. Of all the fine, polished men and women I bet were swarming over him outside this grimy bar, he decided to pay me complete attention. I like to tell myself that the brief moment I had no idea how to gather my thoughts went unnoticed. But I am positive that he knew better.

 

"Thank you" I muttered, still phased. "I am glad to see that they are all enjoying themselves"

 

He left like a shadow, turning on his heel and blending into the crowd before I could blink. I don't think I even saw him walk out the door, even though my eyes were fixed on it in hopes of catching one last glimpse of him. But I didn't. I saw and heard nothing of him at the bar for the remainder of the evening. I did, however, see him on the back of my eyelids when I went to bed that night. And the next day I saw him out of the corner of my eyes, even though he wasn't really there. I just couldn't take my mind off him. I counted the minutes for that school day to end, barely forced myself to focus enough for the children not to notice. The way I just barely forced myself not to run my way to the bar when night fell again.

 

******

 

"Did he ever come back to the bar after that, or was it just a one time thing?" Allen said, setting his pen down and turning his full attention to Mr. Smith again.

 

"Hm? Oh, yes," Mr.Smith said with a nod, "We had many encounters during a period of six months. At first, I thought he grew to like that torn down bar."

 

"But he didn't?"

 

"Yes and no. He didn't like the place, not one bit. But I found out he liked me."

 

"How did you end up finding out about that? If you don't mind my asking, of course"

 

"Not at all, Doc. You see, young men are fascinating creatures. They don't give a rat's ass about what us, adults think about them. He was just like every boy his age. He liked to speak his mind"

 

"So he told you? Without any fear of retribution? I do believe he might have felt more comfortable speaking his mind after the sort of...attention you said he received at the bar."

 

"I don't really know if I can answer that, Allen," Mr. Smith paused for a long time, running a hand over the side of his face and then down to his neck. When he spoke again, his words came out after a long sigh, "I don't know how he thought at the time, and I would never claim to. I liked to believe he felt safe around soldiers. He was saved by one, he was made to believe this country was a safe haven for everyone when the country he'd come from was a land of intolerance to any who dared step out of the perfect cutout of a human being its leader had decided upon. I believe it was either that, or he was young and very, very naïve....or just reckless and arrogant enough to believe no harm could ever come to him, that he could never be that one mangled body on the streets for some reason. 

 

Because, really now, Allen, the boy's wandering around like a breathing call for sin in a pit of hungry dogs. I'm not talking about the bar. I'd like to think most people there were too noble or cowardly to keep their hands from touching what isn't theirs. But the other places he hung around. If you'd seen those places, confessing his sexual preferences to me would seem like the least reckless thing he's ever done."

 

"Could it be," Allen began, "finding yourself always so restrained, being in the military, and then coming back to a society you find very restricting, that you were drawn to such recklessness?"

 

“The military life shapes your character, Allen. You are told that it’s alright to die if you are fighting to live, so you might as well do your country a favor and die with your boots on. There are strict rules and regulations that you have to follow in order to keep your Squad whole. If you break those rules, you and your men are burnt meat. As for our society’s restrictions, do you really think that the men who licked their lips and rubbed their hands every time he passed by them fell to their knees and asked God to forgive their ‘unholy thoughts’? As I said, most of them had wives and children to return to after the music and fun time ceased. I, on the other hand, didn’t have any commitment to respect or any intentions to lead a double life. I was alone and lonely at that time”

 

"I see," Allen turned back to scribble the new information into his notepad before setting his pen back down and looking at Mr. Smith, "And how would you described your reaction to that reckless confession?"

 

"Natural, if I were to choose just a word to describe it. He didn't say that he "loved" me. He was physically attracted to me, as was I to him. So I decided to make a confession too"

 

"What was it that you confessed?"

 

"That I liked him too," Mr.Smith breathed, almost quiet, almost setting his control aside, "l As more than a brother or an adult friend."

 

 

******

 

For six months, things were pretty uneventful. I would watch him play the violin, then he would humor me with a conversation or two before blowing away like smoke. It may sound a bit boring to you, Allen, but to me those few hours were the only light in my dark, dark day back then. I went from being a man who awaited death to a man who awaited the sight of that porcelain face and inky strands.

 

Then, one dark, starless, moonless night, after a lot of glaring and lip chewing, the boy whose real name I'd've yet to know, agreed to let me walk him home. It's always baffled me, Allen, how this same boy with all his recklessness still used a fake name at the bar, and another completely different name at the factory where he worked in the morning. As if that meant he was completely safe. As if it had never occurred to him that someone could simply follow him home one night without his consent...Wait, no, I'm trailing off again. Where was I?

 

Oh, yes, his home -If you could even call it that. It was only one room and a shared bathroom. Rented out to him by a charming old lady whose name was Mrs...Callanghan? Gallanghan? I can't remember. The boy told me she was a widower who'd lost her son to the war. Rented the boy his room for a very low price, because she wanted to help the people her boy had died for. I never really got to meet her since she was usually asleep on most, if not all my visits to the boy's humble abode.

 

"She's real sweet," He explained as we walked down the dark lit street leading up to the house, "I clean the place up for her because her back hurts too much for her to do it herself on most days, and she cooks for me when she can, what more could I want?"

 

Very modest words for a boy who wanted the world, believe me, Allen.

 

The house itself looked like any other on the street where it stood. A cubical, two floor residence with floorboards that were whitewashed and drab and walls whose paint was chipping off and cracking. I remember thinking the garden looked better cared for than the house or the fence that bordered it. It's grass was neatly cut and bushes impeccably trimmed, perfectly placed flower beds here and there too. But then, I suppose an old woman like her would have found caring for the garden a lot easier than house maintenance.

 

The boy's room was at the end of a very narrow hallway on the second floor. It was small, barely able to hold a creaking iron bed to one side of it, and then a dresser to the next. But those were just the larger of the boy's furniture. Because, and I remember this as clearly as I remember what I had for breakfast today, his room was filled with trinkets. Things he'd collected over the years, he explained. A model toy car some child had forgotten at the circus he used to live in, an old bottle of perfume belonging to one of the workers because he liked the way it looked, his mother's hair brush. It was full of little things that I just can't remember.

 

Oh, that, and he had a pet Raven named D'Elormie.

 

"Isn't he beautiful?" The boy cooed at the slick black bird jumping around in its cage, "I found him as a baby. His mama wouldn't take him back because a human touched him, and the rest of the crows considered him a freak, just like me. My moronic uncle said he wouldn't live, but look at him... He's alive and I'm alive, and we're both as freaky as they get".

 

I thought it was a tad bit eccentric to keep a raven as a pet animal. Usually, birds carry a lot of diseases. Then again I had my share of seeing and hearing unconventional things, so I can't blame a child for getting attached to another living being. Some kids have dogs and some have pet crows.

 

"He is" I agreed and went to sit on his twin bed. "I am sure he found a loving home here"

 

"I sure hope so. Because I do love him. Lot more than I've ever loved another human, that's for sure" The boy turned from the bird and, unexpectedly, came to sit beside me on the bed, even though he practically stuck himself to the other side of it. He curled his legs under him and leaned forward to look at me, "Do you have a favorite creature too?"

 

"It's hard to say. I have to admit that I didn't have much time to get attached to anyone. Or anything" And it was true, Doc. I'd had highschool sweethearts as a teenager, and I'd also had one good dog. A cooper Labrador. But those passions were long forgotten by the time he asked me that. Time has a way of taking time, it's almost unbelievable

 

"Oh...well, I guess old men like you are more interested in beer and the dead than they are in living things,"

 

He struck me again with that brute wisdom. It felt like he had the tongue of an old man who'd seen a lot and could teach you a lesson or two about life. Or maybe it was just something he'd picked up from a book he'd read.

 

"Perhaps. Death is part of our reality, after all. So is beer" I told him, my mind still digesting his words

 

"I don't know what tastes worse in that case," his eyebrows furrowed. I can't help but think the look I liked the most about him, was the one that made him look no older than a boy of ten. If only the words coming out of those boyish lips matched that look in innocence, "I don't know what tastes shittier: life or beer."

 

"Both, if you don't get used to the taste. It's all habitude, after all. Some people who couldn't put their lips around a beer bottle are now die hard alcoholics. It's the same with life" For a moment there, I believed in my own words.

 

"That don't make sense, mister," The boy clicked his tongue and crossed his arms as he leaned back against the iron post of his creaking bed, "First you said people who don't like alcohol, then you said alcoholics...they don't have anything to do with each other"

 

"It's hard to understand now, doll. A couple more years and you'll meet all sorts of people" I was sugar coating it, of course. I couldn't bear the thought of telling him about how seemingly perfect lives can go down in the gutter in the blink of an eye.

 

"I like the kinds of people I'm meeting now," It was funny how I was the one who was always so careful about not startling him with any cruel life facts, when he was always pulling the rug from under my feet with things like, "And I like you most of all"

 

"Oh," Was the only thing I managed to say before my brain stopped registering what was happening around me. I am a dense man when it comes to certain things, Doc. I can't catch innuendos and I definitely can't tell if someone is flirting with me or not. Not back then, at least. But what he said hit me like a ton of bricks. And There weren't any predictors or signs that could have prepared me for what he told me that night, as oblivious and dense as I was. I can tell you that for sure.

 

Because what could have warned me about the boy sliding closer to me so subtly. What could've told me to keep an eye open to the fingers that would skate from their shy place at his side and start sliding up my leg? I sometimes wonder if this, and all else that's followed, was some kind of punishment for a wrong choice I'd made that night. Because I knew it was wrong. Believe me, Allen...I've always known.

 

"Oh?" He pressed on for more even thought I'm sure it was obvious I was struggling for words, "You can do better than that, mister..."

 

"I can. But it wouldn't be right"

 

Big surprise, huh? I can tell that you're really skeptical about my noble intentions and that's understandable. I wouldn't be here if I was a saint, am I right? Unbelievable though as it may be, I did hold still and averted that steel gaze of his. I could feel him burning holes into my skull but I didn't flinch. I felt like I was going to destroy something fragile if I made a wrong move.

 

"But you came all this way," I couldn't tell if he was whining or accusing me at that point. He sounded disappointed, and annoyed that I had the audacity to break a promise I had only made in his mind, "is it...you don't find me...."

 

He paused for a long time. Struggling to find a word I'd understand. The boy had this habit of switching to German when he got emotional, you see, Allen. His mind just jammed up when that happened and he could no longer form coherent English sentences. But I would find that out later on. Not that night. That night he was determined to both get what he wanted, and make it seem like I was the one who'd begged for it. So there wasn't really any room for anger and German cursing there.

 

"You don't find me attractive because I'm not a girl, isn't that right, mister?"

 

Poor thing. If he only knew where my mind kept wandering at the time. Then again, I had this strong feeling he was either bluffing or trying to make me feel guilty for hesitating. I didn't chicken out, though. It was either I cross the line and see where it can take me or back off and go back to my usual life. If you could call that hybrid existence a life.

 

"It's not that. I think you know what I, as anybody else, think about you. Except that I don't want to take advantage of you" I said, without looking at him.

 

"I wouldn't let anyone take advantage of me," He snapped, the way he would at a particularly rude comment he got here or there. I can't say I expected him to sound so offended. That wasn't my intention at all. On the contrary, I was trying to be the noble man people kept insisting I was, and not needlessly...sexualise someone so young and so full of limitless potential. Because he had a lot of potential, doc. He just didn't seem to know where to put it.

 

"I'm not stupid. I wouldn't have brought you home if I hadn't wanted you to come," he huffed, tilting his head down to force me to catch his eyes, "That's it, isn't it? You think I'm some kind of ditsy blonde, don't you?"

 

"No," I hurried to answer "No, not at all. It's just that"

And then I had to stop to rearrange my thoughts. It was just that I had second thoughts about myself. I still have. For a man who was already gray at temples and missing one limb to be 'admired' by a boy like him, was overwhelming. I don't believe in all that coy façade or shielding ourselves from the world because we have insecurities. But when people start staring at you with pity and pray that what unfortunate accident happened to you, won't ever happen to them, you become disgusted with both yourself and the world. In equal measure.

 

"You are young and beautiful" I continued. "You will have someone to give you what you need"

 

"But I don't want someone," He breathed, almost desperate. The way he kept switching between emotions often made me feel dizzy. He shifted from one state to another according to your own. A sharp anger and impatience when he felt you were vulnerable enough to shrink at it, then a reluctant shyness of his own the moment you began to think you were the victim and not him. His eyes, body, and vocal cords switched between states as quick and masterful as his fingers did with the strings of his violin. I wouldn't be surprised if it was because of the way he was raised. From what he'd told me, his uncle was quite the conman. And the boy did often behave with the feline grace of a pickpocket. Or it could be that he was just born this way, and this was all second nature to him? I don't know. And I guess with the way he moved those slick fingers up my arm like a worried wife, I couldn't bring myself to care.

 

"I want you,"

 

He could probably hear the gears spinning in my head from how hard I was turning his words to every possible side. Either way, it still feels like someone took advantage of the situation that night. To put the whole blame on him would mean that I am a coward and a hypocrite. To make myself guilty of what was to happen next is equal to suicide. We could both tell that we'd reached the point of no return so there was no use beating around the bush any longer.

 

That's why I took his hand, Doc. And I couldn't give it more than a dead fish squeeze because it felt like you could crush those bird like bones if you weren't careful enough.

 

"I want you too" I finally said and turned to face him.

 

"Then why're you so afraid, Süsser?" I doubt he was whispering for fear of waking up his tenant. No, not when he was close to yelling not a few seconds ago. He turned my hand and looked down at my palm, inspecting it for something, brushing the pad of a bruised thumb along the lines.

 

"There's nothing to be afraid of," the boy said, never taking his eyes away from my hand, "Not in this world, at least. So I don't see why we shouldn't take advantage of it before we go to a place that's full of fear, sorrow, and regret"

 

"Aren't we already living in that place?" I wanted to tell him. But who,in their right mind, would have told a child about what horrors and tragedies are waiting to prey on the innocents?

Only that he wasn't a child, Doc. Not one bit. He just knew how to play one to get what he wanted. And I don't blame him. We all have to survive here, I suppose.

 

"Yes" I said instead, without even hearing myself. "We should"

 

For a second, I thought I saw him smile. Smile like he never had before. Like he'd just snatched a piece of heaven from the afterlife and had managed to run away with it. He shifted closer to me so our knees touched, and leaned closer, eyes half lidded and lips parting so that for a wild moment I thought he'd kiss me.

 

He didn't, of course. Why would he ever conform to what my thoughts made of him?

 

"Do you meat it?" The boy whispered, "With all your heart, with your bones and lungs and soul?"

 

"Yes" I repeated, and my voice seemed to have come from miles away, "I am serious".

 

I really was, Allen. I couldn't lie to him, not even if my life depended on it. It might sound crazy to you, but I think we exchanged vows that night.

 

"I need you to do something for me first," The boy said, pulling away before I had the chance to realize what was going on. His grip on my hand tightened, and he never pulled his eyes away from mine, "I need you to swear yourself to me. The way a man would to his wife"

 

"If you do that," He continued, almost rasping the words now, "I'll let you do anything you want"

 

I should have taken that as a red flag and left. Part of me wanted to, mostly because the way his fingers tightened around my hand stirred something inside me. A suffocating feeling of anxiety, just like a kid who'd see his closet door opening in the middle of the night. At the same time, curiosity got the best of me, just like it always did. And I said yes again. I wouldn't be here if I hadn't agreed with everything he'd asked me to do, would I?

 

I think....I can't help but think...maybe if I hadn't agreed to what he'd wanted me to do back then...I wouldn't be here right now. Maybe I would be sleeping in my own bed back home. Maybe Marie would still be laying next to me in that bed.

 

But I did agree. You can't blame me for it, doc. He was a kid. Kids did a lot of unusual things. They used Ouija boards, they called Bloody Mary in front of a damn mirror. How was I suppose to know that what he was doing was very, very different?

 

"And what exactly did he do, Mr.Smith?"

 

He...went over to his dresser, pulled a paper pressed deep under a stack of clothes, and brought it over to me.

 

"All the men that came to see my mama were married, you know" He said as he put the paper between us and gripped my hand again, "And they were bound till death do them apart from their wives. They were supposed to love no other until they died, but they did. Who's the whore in that case, huh? Doubt it was my mama. She didn't swear herself to no one"

 

"But this is different," His eyes flicked back to mine, and by God, Allen, they almost blinded me with the way they burned. I'd never seen them like that. Like his very life was trapped within goblets of mercury, begging to be let go. They were as beautiful as they were absolutely terrifying, "This means we have to swear ourselves to each other, through good and bad, through temptation or not, through life and death hereafter."

 

Just like saying our vows in front of God. Only, God wasn't with us in that dim lighted room. If He was, He would have dragged me out of that  Devil's dungeon. Or at least, give me the strength to shield my eyes from that silver gaze. But instead of keeping what was left of my religion, I decided to exchange smoke rings with him and play my part in that unholy wedding. A decision that will haunt me for the rest of my days, Doc.

 

He pricked our fingers with a heated pin, and pressed them together so we I watched the blood mix before it dripped onto that empty sheet of paper which he would later go on to burn. Because this wasn't a regular vow, this was special, he explained. Everything about this was very special.

 

"And now you're mine, and I'm yours," He breathed, inches from me, bringing both icy, porcelain hands to cup my face, "We can never break this vow. We should never want to."

 

That was where reality and all that's rational came to an abrupt, screeching halt, Doc. His room was the place where tar turned to dirt and something thick and unpleasant lingered somewhere high in the air, all across the ceiling. Like a mixture of bone-crushing anxiety and undeterred excitement. I wasn't one to believe in all that supernatural business or the dreaded Boogeyman. But something that was out of our world and human perception crawled into the room after the deed was done. It filled the hollows of my bones with spun glass.

 

"I understand" ,was the only thing that made sense out loud. That's exactly what I told him.

 

"Good," He murmured against my lips, "My name's Levi, by the way. Levi Ackerman."

 

******

Silence filled the room. Miss Woods had long ceased her screeching protests, Mr. Smith seemed to hold his very breath after his last sentence. Even the air around them seemed to still to the point where Allen thought he could hear his own heart thrumming with precise, calculated beats against his ribcage.

 

For a moment, if only a fleeting one, Allen thought he could almost see everything Mr.Smith had described right in front of him. He thought he could feel the ghost of the boy, long dead and decomposing now, standing right behind his shoulder. It was a childish thought. Ridiculous, and unworthy of drawing a reaction from him. Not a reaction he could control anyway.

 

He couldn't control the hair standing on the back of his neck.

 

"What happened after that?" Allen urged, straightening his shoulders in an effort to push away whatever nonsense had gone through his mind a second ago.

 

Mr. Smith didn't look at him, he looked through him. Blue eyes glazed and unfocused as they replayed scenes Allen could only ever hear snippets of. He didn't seem to hear what Allen had said, or maybe he just didn't care. In any case, the silence felt heaven enough to not only raise the hairs on the back of Allen's neck, but to break his neck altogether. And just when he was about to repeat his question, Mr. Smith decided to speak again; his tone going back to the pure disinterest it had been when they'd started.

 

"What happens after every 'wedding', if you want to call it that," Mr. Smith sucked in a long breath and took his time letting it leave his lungs, "But before you draw the kind of conclusion I know you will, at least listen to me when I say that it was never about sex with him. He wasn't in it for any physical gratification, and neither was I. If either of us had been, then we probably wouldn't have wanted, needed, to see each other again after that night."

 

 

******

 

But we did. Every night, after he was done with his shift at the factory, and I was done with mine at Oak Hill. Always at his place, because I couldn't risk any of my neighbors seeing me bringing a boy like him home. God knew everyone thought I was 'creepy' enough. They didn't need to add 'faggot' to that mixture.

 

I won't deny doing things with him that a man should only ever do with the woman he'd sworn to love to the grave. I won't deny that I would still sometimes feel the imprint of his lips on mine, or those of ghostly hands pressing bruises into my shoulders well after his untimely demise. I won't deny having sex. However, I didn't think about sex when I laid him into the ground. I thought of the times I held him against my chest and murmured stories into his hair because he was too afraid to fall asleep that night. I thought of the times we danced to Sinatra in the days when his tenant was visitng her sister. I thought of how he insisted he pack up the leftovers of what he'd cooked us every night, because I was 'too old to take care of myself'. I thought how…I didn't have someone whose face would light up for me after a long day of work anymore.

 

Sex? No, I wouldn't think about sex for a long, long time after that.

 

"What about your time together after that night? Your time before he passed away?"

 

I don’t exactly remember how each day went, but I can tell you that they were good days. I used to bring him books after I was through with my work at school, and he used to play the violin for me every Friday night. Sometimes, he would ask me if I wanted him to play a specific song at the bar, for my ears only.

 

On rare occasions, when he had a bad dream or couldn’t sleep at all, I would spend the night with him, sitting in a chair next to his bed. It was what fathers did for their boys or girls when the room seemed too dark and  lightning struck too close to the house, making tree branches look like grabby claws scratching at the window.

 

I can definitely recall that he loved to go to the movies or watch a play on Ann Arbor. I oftentimes scolded myself for not allowing ourselves more luxuries, but I couldn’t risk being seen with a young boy repeatedly. Of course, I could have told anyone who'd asked me what was going on that he was my son, but people don’t taste a lie for too long. Curiosity and a sense of ‘justice’ can dig up the skeleton in your closet.

 

So we spent most of our time together indoors, to avoid any unpleasantries and curious looks. And when I felt even that could draw too much unwanted attention, I suggested we stop seeing each other at night as well.

 

I don’t doubt that Miss Gallagher or Callaghan was an outstanding and permissive lady, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Obviously, like every young man his age, he didn’t take that well. You can’t tell an adolescent that you know what’s best for him better than he does, unless you want him to resent you for a long, long time. That’s why I took the time to explain to him why we should be more discreet about our relationship. It wasn’t as if I didn’t want to spend the night with him. Lord as my witness, I had my desires and interests as a man, but I thought it would be better for us if we kept a low profile.

 

And when even that explanation just wouldn’t do for him, I told him something that I should have kept for myself.

 

As any other man or woman who survived the war knows, when you see so much pain and suffering and you realize how violent human kind really is, it takes a toll on you, whether you like it or not. Some isolate themselves from the world and some keep the chain of violence going by abusing the ones who should mean the world to them. Believe me when I tell you that I’ve witnessed the downfall of many good men.

 

I, on the other hand, didn’t have any violent tendencies or the need for complete isolation or estrangement. The aftermath of what I had seen and done during those years in hell only showed at night. I had terrible nightmares and flashbacks of children lying with their face in the mud and fellow soldiers killing one another because the food was scarce and the winter was growing near.

 

It wasn’t my intention to tell him about what bothered me the most, but I promised myself to him, body and soul. Sooner or later, he would have found out about the night terrors and you probably know how embarrassing and pathetic it is to be caught red handed.

 

Yet, he didn’t laugh or shrug it off as a momentary thing. On the contrary, he took interest in it and came up with a rather ‘eccentric’ solution to my nightly problems, if you want to call it that way.  Spell would be too rudimentary for our time and age, Doc.

 

Anyway, a day or two after I told him one of the two reasons why we shouldn’t see each other at night; I was sitting on his bed again, watching him play ‘La Folia’. I remember clearly that he told me he grew sick of playing the same old sailor songs for his drunken audience. Not that they would have cared if Vivaldi himself decided to play for them that night.

 

When he was done with the improvised rehearsal, he walked to me and put his hand on my shoulders, leaning closer to inspect my face.

 

"I can make the bad dreams go away, Süsser," He murmured, "if you want me to." 

 

Just as I told you, I never found the strength to avoid that burning look in his eyes, let alone try to lie to him when he was staring at me with such intensity that made me shy away for a moment.

 

At first, I had no idea if that was a not-so-subtle innuendo or if he was talking business.

 

"You shouldn't worry about that, doll. It's not big deal" I assured him, trying to avoid the subject as much as possible.

 

"But why?" He frowned, running his hand up my shoulder and to my neck, "I know a way. It works, I promise. And it's really easy too. Won't hurt one bit."

 

"Because it's not important. And it can't be helped". At that moment, I honestly thought it couldn't.

 

"Says you," The boy cocked a brow, "What have you got to lose if you let me help you anyway?"

 

I don't think I have to tell you that I was caught between a rock and a hard place. It wasn't the most comfortable subject to discuss, so I didn't feel at ease when he tried to push the matter further. But I was also curious to see what he had in mind.

 

"Nothing. What did you plan for me?" I asked and jumped back in the game.

 

The boy grinned at that, the smile I'd come to cherish each time it appeared on those ridiculously red lips. His hand left my neck when he stepped away to his dressed and began rummaging through his clothes for the desired items. When he came back to me, he held a black scarf in one hand, and a bag of what looked like dried flowers in the other.

 

"This belonged to my mama," The boy said as he wrapped the scarf around my neck, "But I'm giving it to you because you need it more than I do."

 

The scarf was was soft around my neck and faintly smelled of women's perfume. It was obvious that it was one of the boy's most valued possessions. Taking it with me felt almost like theft.

 

"I can't take it, love. It's a memory from your mother" I said, letting the scarf fall in my lap

 

"Borrow it then," The boy sighed, as if speaking to a stubborn child. He ripped the bag open and took out two flowers and a string, fastening the flowers around the edge of the scarf before leading it back to my neck, "Give it back when you're tired of not having bad dreams and want to stay up all night again"

 

He lost me then. Was I supposed to sleep with the scarf like a child sleeps with their teddy bear? Nevertheless, it was a touching gesture he did back then. It was as if we switched places and I was the one who needed protection now. 

 

"Thank you, sweetness. I won't keep it for too long, so you won't miss it"

 

The smile never faded from his lips as his hands left the scarf and went to cup my face. It wasn't a romantic gesture as much as it was a comforting one. Imagine a mother kissing her son goodbye on the forehead. That's what he did, he brought his lips to my forehead and breathed, "Albtraum, geh weg mit der Nacht" before leaving a soft kiss there and pulling away, moving back to tuck his violin in its case for tomorrow's show.

 

I expect you to ask me what that means. It's only natural to be curious, I would know. But I didn't ask him, unfortunately. I was too caught in the moment and in his childish generosity to open my mouth and voice my curiosity. Later I came to realize that the scarf and the soothing, intelligible words were a token of his affection. And during that short period of time; which felt like a blissful haze for me, he had been generous enough to give me bits of his heart.

 

 

Other than those particular moments, everything else just seems to blur together. As I said, all I remember clearly is that they were good days, and that I was very, very happy during those days. Perhaps even happier than life thought I deserved to be. 

 

Because those days, as beautiful as they were, didn't last long. I believe they lasted a year at best. Then the same disease that took his mother away came after him. It broke my heart, Doc. I’ve been followed by death since I learned how to walk. I’ve seen faces torn off and I’ve seen pieces of scalp hanging besides their shoulders as they fell to their knees, I've bodies jerking under a rain of bullets. But I can't say I've ever seen anything more heartbreaking and unfair than life leaving that frail, fragile body. Coming face to face with death has a terrible impact on your mind and soul, even though you keep pushing the pain you’ve witnessed to the back of your mind.

 

I can still see it crystal clear. It’s one of the many images that will follow me to my grave. What struck me most was the sickly-sweet smell of death in that cramped room of his. When someone dies fast, when they're hit by a speeding car or fall down a flight of stairs and break their neck, there is no specific scent of tragedy and collapse that surrounds the body. But when someone is slowly consumed by a pestilence, there's this fruity smell that invades your nostrils like a bad omen. It’s everywhere, mingled with tears and sweat and body odors, Doc. That’s what despair smells like. But we both know that.

 

There’s no greater heartache than seeing a child, once joyous and beautiful and full of life, gripping the sheets and barely drawing in a breath. During the war, I’ve met boys who hadn't even reached 18, God rest their souls. One of them, a private, clung onto my jacket with boyish hands that turned into claws.

 

“I don’t want to die, Sir. My momma is waiting for me to come back. I have a little brother to teach baseball back home. Oh God, please. I can’t die here”. He wept that night, fat tears rolling down his muddy cheeks. If you kept silent for a few moments, you could hear the same desperate cries of fear from behind the enemy lines, children speaking in German. I couldn’t understand what they were saying but I could smell their fear. And fear has a vile smell, Doc. It leaves a taste of ash in your mouth.

 

Looking back at his dying hours I realized that God turned his face from us. He had forsaken a fragile creature like him, let him waste away like he was never born under the sun.

**He was little more than a skeleton back then, dressed in a light blue nightgown that seemed to hold nothing inside it as his body wasted away. Only his eyes remained the same, wild and full of childish curiosity “Why am I hurting so bad?” They seemed to have wondered. Not even the warm blankets he was tucked in couldn’t hide how little was left of him.**

**“Ich will nicht sterben, Herr” he barely managed to whisper.**

** I told you that he had this habit of switching to German when he was terribly flustered or angry, haven’t I? Only that his cheeks weren’t burning with anger, nor was he stammering words because he had been caught off guard, Doc. I think he was homesick in his final day. I don't know if he knew who was he talking to, if he realized that I was the one who guided him through the valley of the shadow of death, but it doesn’t make any difference now. Although it shook me profoundly at that time. Who wants to die so far away from home, without a loving face to watch over them? **

 

I held his hand through the night and watched his narrow chest heaving with every painful breath he was struggling to catch. My eyes were shimmering with tears of sorrow. We are all powerless in the face of our inevitable demise, but I thought and hoped for just a blissful moment, as he gripped my hand and breathed that he doesn’t want to die, I prayed that he could make it.

 

He died at the break of dawn, with his eyes wide open. Glimmering silvers that quickly turned pale, like spring water running over pebbles. I kissed his eyelids closed and changed him in the clothes he wore during his performances. A pair of black, stripped trousers and a white shirt. Poor thing, he became so feeble and gaunt that he was swimming in those garments.

 

He faded away, Allen, his own body cannibalizing itself.


End file.
